


Behind Closed Doors

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg's timing sucks, M/M, People Will Talk, Scheming Teenagers, dance lessons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 18:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11697510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Sherlock is teaching John how to slow dance. His explanation makes sense. Sort of. But it doesn't explain why he insists on leading.





	Behind Closed Doors

          “Nice song," John commented awkwardly. What else was he supposed to say when he was currently in Sherlock's arms, shuffling to a slow country song? "Tell me again why you're leading?" 

          "... Mycroft may ask you to dance," Sherlock said after a too-long pause. 

          "Right, best be prepared then," John said agreeably. It wasn't the maddest thing his friend had ever asked of him. "Nice of your parents to ask me to their Diamond Anniversary party." 

          "They've indiscriminately invited every half-baked acquaintance they could think of." Well that put him in his place then, didn't it? "Which is why I insisted they ask you. I need someone other than Mycroft to talk to."

          "That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," John joked, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. He grinned at Sherlock's snort and put his hand back on the other man's chest, over his heart. Wait, when had he put it there to begin with? 

          Reading his mind as usual, Sherlock covered John's hand with his own, and twirled them softly, "Leave it, John. This is how it's done."

          "Is it?" John asked a bit thinly. Seemed very intimate for a dance that would be performed in public. Particularly as they were somehow belly to belly, chests rubbing together, feet barely moving. Like foreplay to music, John reflected, feeling a bit warm.

          "Would I steer you wrong?”

          "Yeah, absolutely," John said, aware his hand was riding low on the other man's back. He was perilously close to groping that ridiculously pert arse. Just a casual drift downward and he could be palming perfection. Should he? For once he could surprise the hell out of Sherlock Holmes. 

          A banging on the door made them both jump; they'd been so wrapped up in one another they had failed to hear the faint buzz of the doorbell from the street (Sherlock having murdered the one in their flat yet again), nor the tramp of feet on the stairs. "Lads," Greg barked, barging in, "Thank God you're both here! I've got a—" 

          They froze, clasped in one another's arms, faces mere inches away, John's hand hovering over Sherlock's bottom. 

          "Uh…" 

          "It's not what it looks like!" John shouted. 

          "Knock next time!" Sherlock snarled, looking murderous. He refused to let go of John, who was rapidly turning brick red. Rather than indulge in an undignified and useless struggle, John tried to look casual. He did, however, put his hand back on Sherlock's back at a position which wouldn't have been shocking to anyone. "It had better be at least a nine," Sherlock warned, comfortingly patting John's hand which was still on his chest. 

          “I, uh, didn’t knock because you always—” Greg gestured loosely, “And you’ve never—”

          “The signs were there,” Rosie drawled in a bored voice, from the landing. The three men craned their necks to look at her. She was sitting on the top step, slouchy purple beanie nearly disguising her dark, choppy hair. Turning her head, the stud in her nose caught the light. She stood up, short and sturdy in her clunky boots, tights, school skirt and one of John’s old flannel shirts; removing Bluetooth earbuds from her ears, “Why else do you think I’m sitting out here listening to Iggy Azalea instead of inside my own home doing my school work?”

          “What signs?” John asked, trying to move away from Sherlock, who still had an arm around his shoulders; and then, “ _Iggy Azalea_! Rosamunde—”

          “Good job, Watson,” Sherlock interrupted, smiling approvingly at his god-daughter.

          “Elementary deduction, really,” Rosie excused, dumping her school books on the table. “I have essays to write and my Russian to study. Will the lounge be safe or are the two of you kicking me and Uncle Greg out?”

          Before John could take her to task for smirking and winking and in general acting like Sherlock at his most insufferable, his friend and flatmate let his arm drop, “I can tell from Lestrade’s face that he’s in a quandary. I suspect you’ll have the flat to yourself for the night.”

          “She can go down to Mrs. Hudson’s if we’re not home by nine,” John began.

          “Dad! I’m thirteen, I don’t need a minder!”

          Their argument was interrupted by Sherlock throwing John’s coat in his face, “John—the case.”

          “Sherlock—my daughter.”

          “Is fine. She has a black belt in Krav Maga, a satellite phone, and a fire-breathing dragon in Mrs. Hudson. Even if someone were to breech the front door, she’d be able to defend this place like a medieval keep.”

          Useless to argue really. It was true. Rosie was not your typical thirteen year old. John kissed her despite her half-exasperated, half-indulgent huffing, and left the flat.

          They didn’t return for almost four days. By the time they made it home again, John had practically forgotten about the arse-grazing dance fiasco.

          Practically.

 

******

 

          “Great party,” John observed, smiling as they walked back in the flat a few weeks later. He hung up his coat and crossed the room, fiddling with the music dock on the mantel next to Billy. Rosie had shown him a million times how to use it, always, as it turned out, to no avail; but tonight he was really going to try. She wasn’t here to show him what he was doing wrong.

          “Mm, if you like hootenannies.” Sherlock disappeared into his room while John cursed the stupid piece of technology which was fighting him. By the time he had it working, Sherlock had emerged from his room, dark red dressing gown open over a white vest top and navy pyjama bottoms.

          “Didn’t dance all that much,” John commented, smiling to himself. “Polkas and line dances aren’t my thing.” Deep breath, “I never did get to have my slow dance.”

          The silence emanating behind him had depth and breadth and substance. John looked into the mirror, studied Sherlock’s face, nodded, and turned. “I’d like to dance with you,” he said quietly as the music started. “You don’t mind, do you?”

          Sherlock blinked rapidly, face expressionless, and then he was back, “There’s no need—”

          John took his hands and drew him to his feet, moving smoothly into his arms, putting one hand over Sherlock’s heart, “There’s every need.”

          “John—” Sherlock’s face was vulnerable.

          “Do you realize that come this August we’ll have been together twenty years?” John smiled into Sherlock’s intense eyes, “Platinum,” he ran a hand over his hair, “Appropriately enough.”

          “I—do—we—” Sherlock stuttered to a halt, closed his eyes. They swayed in place, “Do friends celebrate anniversaries?”

          “We’re more than friends,” John said huskily, smoothing his left hand down Sherlock’s back.

          “Right.” Sherlock swallowed, opening his eyes but avoiding looking directly at John. “Best friends. We can have dinner at Angelo’s—”

          “I was thinking a party,” John mused, letting his hand glide down Sherlock’s spine to graze the small of his back, “Show all our friends how happy we are.” He took his hand off of Sherlock’s back, registered the flash of disappointment in the other man’s eyes, adjusted his hold and dipped him, smiling down into his eyes, “I think it’s time, don’t you?”

          “John?”

          He stood, bringing Sherlock with him. They stood flat footed, staring at one another. “I’ve loved you for a longer than I can remember. It’s changed over the years, but it’s always been there. You’re the longest, most committed relationship I’ve ever had; the most important person in my daughter’s life. The most important person in _my_ life. I don’t know exactly what we are—but I know what I want us to be.” He took a shaky breath, suddenly terrified he’d gotten it all wrong, “I think you want that too.”

          In the scant seconds it took Sherlock to open his mouth, John died a little inside; small wonder Sherlock had never made a move if this was how terrifying it was to wait and wonder—

          “I’ve always wanted you, John,” Sherlock said, voice shaking slightly, and placed a hand on John’s cheek. “May I?”

          “Please do,” John whispered, and caught his breath when his best friend lowered his lips and kissed him. It was a chaste kiss, soft lips barely parted, a ghost of breath over his face, but energy vibrated between them, the promise of more. His hands came up and tangled in Sherlock’s hair, thumbs brushing his impossible cheekbones. After a few moments he pulled away reluctantly, “Are we moving too fast?”

          “John,” Sherlock purred, hands drifting down his body and pulling his hips toward his own, “as far as I’m concerned, we’ve had two decades of foreplay.” He smiled quite wickedly, bit John’s lip and sucked on it hungrily, then pulled off with a pop, “It’s past time to get on with it.”

          “Thank God,” John sighed, and pulled him toward the bedroom.

 

******

 

          Nothing took care of insecurities about your not-so-young-anymore body, John reflected, standing naked in the kitchen and buttering toast, like a rapacious lover.

          “Jooooohn, hurry up!” Sherlock called petulantly from where he lolled in bed, “I’m hungry.”

          “Coming,” John laughed, bringing the tray of tea and toast into the room and sitting it on the chair he dragged next to the bed with one foot, “You’re impatient for tea.”

          “It’s your fault,” Sherlock sighed, rolling onto his back and stretching luxuriously. He ran lazy hands down his body, eyes hot on John, “You’ve awakened a beast.”

          “Oh?” John put down the teapot, cups still empty, “A beast, you say?”

          “Yes,” Sherlock smiled, taking himself in hand and commencing a lazy stroking, “A very, very hungry beast.”

          “I think I have just the thing for your hunger,” John promised, one knee on the bed. He stopped, head cocked, “Just a minute.”

          “John,” Sherlock protested.

          “I hear Rosie’s ringtone,” John said, hurrying out of the room. His smartarse daughter kept hacking his phone and changing the ringtone to something embarrassing or inappropriate. Currently it was a very loud quacking he couldn’t figure out how to uninstall. He checked his text and groaned.

          _Well??? Did it work???_

          He tapped out a message, grinning as Sherlock moaned dramatically from the bedroom. _I don’t know what you’re talking about_. He sent it off and then took pity and sent another, _But yes_. He giggled and sent a third message, _Now piss off, I’m going to do unspeakable things you’re too young to know about_.

          He could practically hear her gagging from across town. Tossing his mobile on his chair John swaggered back in the bedroom, posed in the doorway. “Still eager?”

          “What do you think?” Sherlock pouted.

          “Tea?” John asked innocently, holding the pot up. “You’re probably thirsty—”

          “John!” Sherlock yelled, “Get in this bed and bugger me!”

          “Oh dear,” they heard faintly from the direction of the flat door, followed swiftly by the sound of it closing.

          John started giggling, “That’s it, we’ll not see Mrs. H for the next month.” He put the teapot down and began crawling up Sherlock’s long form, “Perhaps we should buy her some flowers? Or I could take her out to lunch?”

          “That’s all very sweet, but it’s not taking care of my needs,” Sherlock sulked.

          “Handsy,” John joked, when Sherlock grasped his arse in both large palms and hauled him up the bed. He rocked against the other man and smirked at the fluttering eyelids he got in response. “Now, you said you had some needs? Do tell me how I can help…”

         

**Author's Note:**

> The song Sherlock and John dance to is gorgeous, go listen to it right now. I'll wait.
> 
> Tennessee Whiskey (Chris Stapleton)
> 
> I used to spend my nights out in a barroom  
> Liquor was the only love I’d known  
> But you rescued me from reachin' for the bottle  
> And brought me back from being too far gone
> 
> You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey  
> You're as sweet as strawberry wine  
> You're as warm as a glass of brandy  
> And honey, I stay stoned on your love all the time
> 
> I've looked for love in all the same old places  
> Found the bottom of a bottle always dry  
> But when you poured out your heart I didn’t waste it  
> 'Cause there's nothing like your love to get me high
> 
> You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey  
> You're as sweet as strawberry wine  
> You're as warm as a glass of brandy  
> And honey, I stay stoned on your love all the time
> 
> You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey  
> You're as sweet as strawberry wine  
> You're as warm as a glass of brandy  
> And honey, I stay stoned on your love all the time
> 
> Good, right? Lovely.


End file.
